480 Nautical Miles of Atlantic Blue, Fatigue, and Flow
Somehow, I’d picked up a nasty bug on our Morocco road trip. It started with a bit of aching here and there, and then hit me hard—knocking me out for over a week. I think I even slept through my birthday. You might’ve noticed it in the last video—I skipped diving in to plug up the through-hulls because I was still barely upright.
But eventually, I got back on my feet. We had new seacocks in, the boat was ready, and we spotted a half-decent weather window. It was time to set sail for the Canary Islands.
Choosing the Route
We did consider heading to Madeira first. But every low-pressure system we tracked seemed to zero in on it—lots of wind, cold rain, unstable forecasts. Not ideal. The Canaries looked like the better call. Turns out, it was. Even once we got there, those same weather systems clipped the islands regularly, bringing strong gusts and more than enough rain—but I’ll save that story for another post.
Casting Off with Good Company
We weren’t alone for this passage. We left Rabat alongside a Swiss couple on another Hallberg-Rassy and kept sight of a third boat on the horizon for a while. There’s a quiet comfort in knowing you’re not the only ones out there, even if you’re each in your own little world of motion and miles.
Of course, it didn’t start smoothly. The sea was choppy, the skies grey and heavy. Nike dove into cooking right away—maybe a bit too enthusiastically—and got seasick not long after. That left us with a quiet rhythm on board: long, tiring watches, minimal small talk, and the hum of the ocean around us.
The Unseen Effort
There was no dramatic storm, no major gear failure. Just five days of persistent swell, shifting winds, and the deep physical and mental effort it takes to be “on” for days at sea. If you’ve done an offshore passage, you know: the challenge isn’t always dramatic—it’s endurance. It’s cooking while bracing your knees, sleeping in four-hour shifts, staying alert when the world is just shades of blue and grey.
But once again, Santana did a beautiful job. She carried us fast and steady, mile after mile. And finally, La Graciosa rose on the horizon. We slipped into the anchorage, dropped the hook, and exhaled—hoping for a week or two of good weather, still water, and the chance to rest and recharge.
Until next time—stay curious, stay salty.
– Floh